


Her Beacon and Her Shield

by meltokio



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble, F/F, Five Times Kissed Prompt, Fluff, What do you mean the Lady Herald can't smooch her knight in shining armor?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 00:12:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10865028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meltokio/pseuds/meltokio
Summary: Five Times Kissed, featuring f!Trevelyan and (Divine) Cassandra Pentaghast.





	Her Beacon and Her Shield

The first is curiosity. Sated only by experience. It’s a mishap. A study. A hypothesis tested ― proven. Lips are as soft as whispered prayer. Warm and pliable (an unaccounted-for phenomenon. For a woman so steadfast, she is yielding in this.). She tastes of elderberry jam from an afternoon snack. When they part, the Herald smiles, unperturbed, as if nothing extraordinary has transpired. Bow is slung lightly over her shoulder and she sets one foot before the other, dancing over rock and root on the balls of her feet.

The second is certainty. Breathless and blushing, hands on her face and fingers in her hair ― she tugs once on the ebony braid upon Cassandra's crown until it falls loose from its pin. They stifle embarrassed chuckles against skin tinged with salt. They’ve locked themselves away from the nobles in the great hall, stumble over the rug as they pull off garments, tumble onto the Herald’s grand Orlesian bed. They allow themselves one night of giddy revelry before they face the truth of the morning.

She sees her lover’s eyes stained red with corruption when she falls asleep.

The third is relief. Tears on cheeks and on lips. Smoke in hair and laughter between lungs. The Herald doesn’t wait for privacy, but slings her arms around her Seeker’s neck and peppers her face with happy kisses. She is lost in bliss when the Commander clears his breath, the Ambassador hides a giggle behind a demure hand.

In war she is the Inquisitor. In her arms she is Evelyn.

The fourth is anguish. Silence disrupted only by the brushing of fabric; small, pained sobs that make it past her lips. Hands clasp in desperation, knuckles white. If they hold tight enough, perhaps they will never have to let go. They will not have to place the realm before themselves. Perhaps if she remains steadfast she will not have to leave. Perhaps if she beseeches the Maker she will not have to watch her go.

They know now of sacrifice. They know now of loss.

The fifth is serenity. Gone are the years of pining; the days of pitiable youth. They are too wise for such now, too solid in their selves. One sits the Sunburst Throne, the vanguard and aegis of Andraste’s holy word. The other weilds a flaming sword, divine and implacable. The age is new, the dragons do not stalk the skies. The Victorious Age dawns hence with the sunrise, as two old lovers watch from a canopied bed. One reaches a slender hand, the only one she's got left, and twirls a strand of slate-grey around her finger. “We’re starting to match,” she says, a smile tucked into the corners of her lips.

The Divine looks at first offended, then her brow smooths in clemency. "It is all your doing, I am sure.“


End file.
